Hear No Evil
by RoseHolmes
Summary: "So I brought it upon myself to take care of- or rather- silence Sherlock's current problem." The first in a series of 3. R&R.


**Author's Note: My first hand at fanfiction for a while, so feel free to R&R. Canonically, Sherlock and Mycroft are 7 years apart, making Sherlock 15 and Mycroft 22 in this story. I own nothing. **

_If you're going to do this right, you're going to have to be awfully quiet about it. _

Sherlock closed the door slowly, just gentle enough as to shut it without making a sound. One even seemingly inaudible whisper would ring through the great front hall of our home so that anyone on the first floor could hear the echo. I knew that Sherlock knew this, which was why he was being so stealthy, and I knew it was because he had come downstairs during the night for a drink of water and had heard Mummy and Father talking about _things_. Things we both had seen coming for a long time, but had been felt much heavier when finally said aloud- in fact- just loud enough for him to hear because of the echo. Things I knew he had heard and wanted to run from, but had to be quiet about his escape so they wouldn't know he had heard. Things that would be of much worry to Mummy and Father, so I brought it upon myself to take care of- or rather- _silence _Sherlock's current problem.

After the door had finally shut, I could hear him tip-toe to the staircase, trying to be sneaky, as the floor of the front hall was marble and the stairs was a much less audible carpet. But I knew he was coming from school, and his school shoes clicked briskly as he walked normally, I knew, so even though he was being quiet, I could hear faint taps indicating his steps.

He was good at this, yes, but I am better.

"Oh _Sherlock._" I could hear his body _cringe_ at my call. "Come into the sitting room, if you will." And so with several more noticeable clicks of his shoes, Sherlock had entered the living room, behind the arm chair where I had been sitting.

"You're home from university," Sherlock said, trying to speak maturely.

"Yes, I arrived home last night, but you had been out, as I was told, and obviously returned when I was asleep."

Sherlock said nothing.

"And then," I continued, "when I had woken up, I had found that you were already gone for school..."

Sherlock, again, said nothing.

"Father hadn't noticed your irregular departures, obviously, because he too seems to come home late and leave quite early. "Work", I suppose. Mummy, on the other hand, was very distressed, indeed-"

"You know something." Sherlock snapped. "Tell me."

"Come talk to me face-to-face." I said. I could tell, in that moment, that he had tensed up. For a moment, he did not move. "Come now, brother. Be reasonable." Knowing he couldn't run, he slowly made his way around the chair. It was worse than I had thought- a fierce black eye bruised the left side of his face. A single, large bandage rested on the the same cheek, and judging by the surrounding skin, had probably been replaced several times over the course of the day.

Honestly, it was hard to repress a chuckle at the sight.

It was hard initially, but then I took another good look at Sherlock: head down, fists clenched, back tense, hands fumbled with his bag, eyebrows furrowed, eyes closed. To any other average person, he looked quite angry, as though he would burst at any moment. But alas, I knew, better than anyone, that this was Sherlock's rare look of utter _shame. _Not because he had to show me his injuries, but because this meant he would have to show Mummy. And that's something even I know better than to laugh at.

"Look at those cheekbones. Mummy loves those cheekbones. Shame that's where the bully aimed." I said, after a long silence. "He looks like an awfully dumb brute. An awfully dumb and right-handed brute with friends to hold you down."

"You have no idea," said Sherlock, dryly. "Although I wouldn't call them friends. More like followers who are very afraid of getting into a similar situation as myself. Weak."

"Are you going to give me a look at the bruises on your arms and back as well?"

"Not if I can help it."

And so Sherlock took a seat in the armchair across from mine, placing his bag on the coffee table between us. I deduced that in the school year I had been gone, he had grown nine more centimeters, his voice had dropped slightly- but he still had ways to go with that- and his feet had grown significantly, judging by his brand new school shoes despite it being the end of term. I also deduced that he had gone a day or two without a major meal, something he did when he had a lot on his mind, but wasn't eating much to begin with- obvious considering how thin he was. His right eye was sunken and exhausted- suggested a restless night. Dead skin on the ends of his fingertips suggested he had been practicing his violin an awful lot lately, and judging by his right middle finger, had probably taken the place of homework. Judging by his uniform, he had wanted to look better than usual, as to through the bullies off- so he had gone to the trouble of ironing his own Oxford, keeping all of his buttons buttoned- including collar buttons- and tied his tie several times over until he got the shape and grip he wanted. The sleeves also weren't rolled up as they usually were, which could be because he wanted to look better, but probably as to hide the bruises left by being held down by the "followers", which were probably awful. His hair, despite his efforts, was still an unkempt black bush resting just above his eyes. This frustrated him at first, but stopped caring as the day progressed. He wasn't getting outside enough, and was having trouble breathing.

My final deduction was that he was also deducing me, as we always did once we were reunited after long periods of time.

"You're sitting in Father's chair," said Sherlock after a brief silence. "Why?"

I sighed. He knew, but he wanted me to say it. "Father didn't come home last night."

Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes were obviously saddened. Sad not for himself, but for Mummy.

"Where is she now?" He asked tentatively.

"Upstairs, in her room," I said. "She needed to rest after the night she was put through."

Sherlock was like a statue, hands folded in front of his face, slouched in the chair, legs crossed- this required an intense effort from him. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't tell me. Tell Mummy," said I.

"I don't like making her upset," said Sherlock.

"Then you should come straight home after you get your arse handed to you, Sherlock, instead of running around the city until ungodly hours doing who knows what." That was it. The final knife in his side. I was sorry to be so hard on him, but with Sherlock, it's the only way to take care of his problems. "What exactly were you doing, brother?"

I could feel him repressing himself- keeping himself from breathing, or moving. "Buying time," he said.

"Oh, enough of your talk. Tell me, honestly, now- what were you really buying? Cough, brother."

"No!"

"_Cough!_"

He couldn't hold it in any longer- Sherlock coughed a deep, wet, disgusting cough, racking his whole body. "As I thought," I said, "bronchitis- caused by smoking."

"Father smokes," protested Sherlock. "And Mummy used to."

"Oh please," I rolled my eyes. "Smoking is a wretched habit and you ought to get rid of it now while you're ahead."

"It calms my mind. Helps me think clearer," said Sherlock.

"Find better ways."

"You don't understand!" Sherlock's voice rose. "My mind runs a thousand miles a minute. I need _something_! It doesn't stop, Mycroft. I'm going insane..."

"You're being dramatic," I assured him. "You just need to put your mind toward something worthwhile."

Sherlock scoffed, and folded his arms, all the while avoiding eye contact. I accepted that. He knew I had won.

"Before you run off to your room and avoid all human contact for the rest of the night, there are several things you should know," said I. "First of all, your school called. You ought not to deduce your classmates right out in the middle of class, Sherlock, especially as a means of defense. Your poor teachers don't deserve it either. Also, you're evidently missing several important assignments that you _will_ be completing before the end of the year. Second of all, you're going to the doctor, first chance we get. Until then, get plenty of rest, and eat something for God's sake. Preferably soup, it should help with that cough. Thirdly, you're going to give me that pack of cigarettes right now."

Sherlock's eyes suddenly snapped onto me. "Mycroft..."

"Now."

Reluctantly, and without breaking his gaze, Sherlock went into his school bag and pulled out a smashed package of cigarettes. He placed them on the coffee table beside his bag. "If I'm quitting these, then you ought to stop eating so much. Your suits are starting to look tight." I took them with a polite smile, stood up, and began to walk out of the room.

"Do you think Father will return?" asked Sherlock.

I paused, thinking carefully. "You know him just as well as I do."

"That means nothing," he replied spitefully. Alas, we knew very little about our father, other than he was our main source of income and in return, we were meant to appear as his trophy family.

I sighed. "If he comes back, it will be for the safe. Not for Mummy, if that's what you were hoping for."

"That's what I thought," said Sherlock, disappointed.

And with that, I left him to make his own deductions. He probably realized that due to Father's absence, Mummy would re-hire the old nanny to keep an eye on Sherlock so he wouldn't get into trouble while she figured things out. Things like what would happen if Father cut us off from the Holmes fortune completely. He also probably figured out the measurements of Father's mistress, as well as her favorite color of lipstick. He also probably figured out how much time it would take to make up his missed assignments as well as how much he would have to cut back on violin practice to make up for this.

And, hopefully, he realized that even though I sat in Father's chair, I will not take his responsibilities as the man of the family. Not for long, anyway.


End file.
